The Ultimate Assassin
by Leyende
Summary: Andrzej Staniek, a Polish Immortal, aka Bushi, is the consumate warrior and ultimate assassin. Now he has been hired for a job that could change the world. Mainly O/Cs but features Kronos and the Watchers in key supporting roles. Warnings: Profanity, violence (inc. inter-gender) WORK IN PROGRESS
1. Chapter 1: Bounty

_Some readers may be familiar with this story from the past. I've posted bits of it on and off in various forums since 1999. This has since undergone a drastic re-write as have many of my works. In the past I fell into a trap – the story unfolded in my head like a movie, I could see everything that was going on, see the backdrops and so on but forgot that the reader could not. I had the bones of a decent story but it lacked meat. I hope I've corrected that now without going into overkill._

_Leyende._

* * *

**_Chateau Des Sept Verges,_**  
**_Montjoie-Saint-Martin, Normandy, France._**

He breathed almost silently, chest barely moving as he exhaled. For almost ten hours he had hidden here in the darkness, black bodysuit blending his shape with the shadows. His night-vision was incredibly sharp, so sharp in fact that he could have read even the finest print on a letter or in a book, held at arms length. Where others were blind and helpless, Andrzej Staniek was invincible. It was for precisely this reason that he had taken up the position so long ago. By allowing himself sufficient time to become accustomed to the darkness, he eliminated the need for night-vision goggles, a device he found to be both cumbersome and difficult to conceal.

The Chateau Des Sept Verges sat on the outskirts of Montjoie-Saint-Martin in the Manche arrondissement of Normandy taking its name from the seven orchards that ringed the house and lawn. In previous years the estate was famed for its cider and brandy production, courtesy of the four fruits produced there. Once owned by a wealthy family the estate had been purchased by a wealthy industrialist four years previously. The stables which had once been patronised by wealthy Arabs whose stallions stood at stud, was now home to non-running thoroughbreds ridden by the chateau's inhabitants. The large barn was little used, save for storing excess hay that the feed store could not hold. When asked why he did not pull it down the estate's owner flashed a trademark photogenic smile and simply replied "It looks impressive. Why waste money on pulling it down?"

* * *

He had planned this mission meticulously, working out all details from entry to escape. He had examined plans of the estate in fine detail, from the layout of the estate through to the location of the "nightingale" floorboards – an age-old early warning system used by the powerful and the paranoid that squeaked or "sang" when trodden on – in the chateau itself. Preparation was the key, and Staniek refused to take on a job or mission, without thorough research and planning. Money, coercion and theft were the tools of this particular trade, and Staniek was a master of all three.

Getting into the estate was easy. The man he had been hired to kill, Mitchell Ward, multi-millionaire, entrepreneur, and patron of many charitable institutions, was a stickler for social events, often throwing lavish parties at his country home. Tonight was one such night. For all his wealth however, security at the estate was lax. The guards failed to even pay cursory attention to the additional workman who arrived later than his colleagues, and much less notice that he headed away from the chateau. His destination was the barn adjacent to the shed that housed the main generator. Once safely in the barn, he removed the overalls he was wearing, stripping down to his bodysuit. A final check of his equipment followed, before he positioned himself in the corner of an empty stall, lying on a bale of hay, completely motionless.

Before leaving the United States, Staniek had been painstaking in his preparations, scouring the internet, newspapers and journals about the man he had been hired to kill. He attended seminars and events put on by Ward and his companies, the better to learn about his target. A brief thought of getting himself invited to one of Ward's parties was swiftly dismissed. Not through the risk to himself, but because of the terms of the contract. A message had to be sent. This required more time and preparation on site than a simple "drop off" job. While attending as a guest was out of the question, Ward's social events were the key to his demise.

Digging deeper he found out that Ward and some of his companies were mob fronts, laundering money and fencing stolen goods for a crew based in New Jersey. The highly respected Ward made a suitable figurehead for such companies, since his squeaky-clean image and sheer public and media appeal deflected any notions of any wrongdoing within his organisations.

However, Ward was suspected by many of his backers to be embezzling funds from these organisations to pay off gambling debts and maintenance payments for a half dozen illegitimate children. Ward had outlived his usefulness, and was in danger of becoming a liability to his backers. The risk was one that the Mafiosi were not prepared to take. The problem needed to be solved, quickly and discreetly. To do so they needed an outsider, someone not associated with them, to keep the spotlight away from them when Ward was gone.

Staniek didn't care why the decision to terminate Ward had been taken. As he told the capodecina who hired him, all he wanted to know was what Ward did after the parties at his home. The price for the hit: $10 million. When you wanted a job done properly you hired the best. Staniek was the best.

The capo didn't disappoint. When he called Staniek again he had everything. The parties usually finished around 3 a.m., the last guest usually leaving about half an hour later. After the departure of the last guest, the eight guards resumed their rounds with dogs. Ward would personally see off all of his guests then take brandy in his bedroom before retiring for the night. A maid called Yvette, a regular bed partner of Ward's, supplied the brandy and more besides. Staniek listened quietly as the contact related Ward's sexual habits. Although disinterested in the particulars, experience had taught the Pole to pay attention; a key fact could be contained within. It would not pay to miss it.

According to the capo there were three keys to the bedroom. Yvette and Ward had one each; the third resided with Ward's butler, who inhabited the annexe on the far side of the house. The butler, an old man in his late sixties was harmless enough owing to a distinct predilection for his cider, made from the apples of the estate's orchard. The butler played little part in Ward's socials and in any case was too drunk to be of any use to anyone by midnight.

"How you do it is up to you." the capo said. "We don't care. However, if you get caught you are on your own. Don't even think about coming back here. We don't tolerate failure. Talk to the police and you'll be dead before the sun sets"

Staniek grunted at that. He expected nothing more. In truth, he held all the cards. He knew it, and so did the capo. The crew were in deep, and Staniek held the lifeline. They needed him and hated that fact. There would be no double-cross because they had too much to lose.

Enjoy your party Mr Ward, he thought, it's going to be your last.

* * *

Staniek glanced at his digital wristwatch. 0320. _Show time_.

His ears picked up the sounds of departing guests. Quietly he stepped from his hiding place, edging towards the side door to the path that separated the barn from the generator shed. The hinges of the door creaked, but the sound was drowned out by the post party hubbub. A quick glance in both directions showed the footpath to be clear. Three steps and he was at the generator shed door.

Once the generator failed it would be three minutes before the auxiliary generator in the chateau's basement kicked in. The main generator was oil-fired. Draining off the fuel would be the quickest way to kill it, but that presented its own problems. For starters the smell would attract the attention of the dogs, if not the guards. Obvious damage would also create suspicion and make his job harder than it needed to be. He paused, thinking.

The only light in the shed came from a single overhead bulb. Staniek smiled to himself. European bulbs had bayonet cap fittings. Bend one or snap it off and the light was useless. How many times had this been done by heavy-handedness? It would not arouse suspicion. Reaching up he twisted the bulb out of the socket and bent the cap before screwing it loosely back into place. Anybody removing the bulb now would think that they had caused the damage. The darkness would be his weapon. Seeing no obvious damage the guards would doubtless shrug and investigate again in the morning, thinking it a simple generator failure. Staniek was counting on their sloppiness to aid him in the job.

Moving around the back of the generator Staniek unscrewed the cap on the fuel pipe. He peeled back his glove before touching the pipe with his wrist. Cold, as he had hoped. A hot pipe would pose a risk of igniting the fuel, but with the older models you could never tell. Cautiously he unzipped his suit before urinating in the fuel pipe. His bladder emptied, Staniek replaced the cap and zipped his suit. The steam build up would cause a rupture in the generator, knocking it out completely. When it blew, he would have his chance to enter the house unseen. His superior night-vision would put him at a distinct advantage.

Exiting the shed he headed back for the barn, keeping the chateau on his left. He cracked the side door of the barn, keeping it slightly ajar after he entered, to save himself crucial seconds when the time came. A series of dull metallic bangs signalled the generator blowing.

Mentally he counted to ten slowly. Through the opened door he heard the sounds of confusion amongst the departing guests and the dogs, five Alsatians and three Dobermans barking loudly. Good, Staniek thought and he exited the barn sprinting for the house. The guards were preoccupied with the guests and controlling their skittish dogs. Pausing behind a tree he watched the confusion. The house was unguarded. He crept to the doorway that had remained open and quickly stepped inside. He sprinted up the main stairs, taking them two at a time before halting at the landing. _Nightingale floorboards_.

He carefully navigated his way around the boards, his target a closet across the corridor from the master bedroom. Stepping inside he left the door ajar, the better to allow his sight to adjust when the lights came back on. Checking his watch he saw that two and a half minutes had elapsed since he left the barn. Now the fun could begin.

Presently the lights flickered back on. Too late Staniek turned away from the doorway, finding himself temporarily blinded by the sudden light. He blinked to clear the spots from his eyes, silently cursing the mistake. The change from night vision to bright light was always hard at best. He shifted position to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the light. Gently he dropped his bag on the floor before moving his hands in front of his face. Extending his fingers he pushed his hands and arms out to their full extent, before pulling them back in. Palms facing the floor he pushed downwards. The kata helped slow his breathing and he repeated it three more times. His eyes now adjusted, and breathing controlled he was ready.

A dull thumping started in the back of his head growing in intensity. Migraine. Obviously the change from dark to light had been so drastic his brain could not cope. Never mind, it would pass. Staniek rotated his neck and shoulders loosening them up. The thumping eased but was still present, nagging, but not distracting. He picked up his bag and removed his silenced Berretta 96 semi-automatic pistol. The faithful friend would see action tonight. He slipped the bag over his shoulder and tightened the strap. He doubted he would have time to retrieve it afterwards, and although he had not sensed another Immortal it would not do to be caught without a sword.

A nightingale board squeaked along the corridor, followed by a curse in French. The rustle of a satin dress and soft footsteps reached his ears. Yvette or someone else? Staniek peered out ready to change tactics if it proved was a lost guest. It was indeed Yvette. Hair piled high in plaits and curls, a shapely bosom cosseted by the green satin of the dress. All alluring, all for show, a rich mans whore.

The headache intensified again, pulsing and fading, pulsing and fading. Staniek concentrated harder, focussing on his target. The hem of her train brushed the carpet as she passed him, a rustling sound that reminded him of wind in the trees. The dress had a plunging back, revealing milk-white skin that ended in a curve around the small of her back. A most inviting attire, and a cumbersome one. Yvette would be unable to fight him off, encumbered by the fabric, and by the items she carried, a brandy bottle and two glasses. Her scent reached him, perspiration mixed with an expensive perfume, doubtless a favourite of her master's. All weapons for the assassin sent to terminate him.

Staniek slowly opened the closet door as Yvette put the bottle and glasses on the floor and took a key from the folds of her dress, and unlocked the bedroom. As she pushed the door open Staniek charged, skipping over a nightingale board and shoved her into the room. She tripped on the hem of her dress and fell face first onto the carpet. Staniek stalked her like a cat until he judged the range was right and kicked her in the thigh. The leg buckled as she tried to stand. Staniek sidestepped readying himself to strike again, the gun gripped loosely in his right hand. The next strike did not come from him. Snakelike Yvette threw out a hand, the fingers bent claw-like, her nails raking like a hawks talons, catching Staniek by surprise and buying her time. It didn't land, but forced him back anyway. Encouraged she lashed out again, a stream of French curses exploding from her mouth. Staniek almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. This rich mans play thing, the millionaire's maid with the expensive clothes and perfumes, spewing forth guttermouth language he expected to find in the sink estates around Paris. Her skill was a surprise too. Someone had taught her to fight and taught her well, but he was better, much better.

He dipped his head forward, faking an attack and looking to draw Yvette forward. She did, lunging forward to claw at his eyes. He dodged, ducked under the outstretched arm and hooked it, pulling her off balance and throwing her against the side of the bed. Before she could react he pistol-whipped her twice on the back of the head. She went limp, leaning on the bed, her arms outstretched and torso on the mattress, a crude parody of sexual invitation. This time Staniek did laugh. He had planned to use her to trap Ward, but now she would tempt him to his death instead. He retrieved the bottle and glasses from the corridor and placed them on the night table next to the bed. Yvette still had not moved, not that he cared. She would die anyway when he was finished. She had to, there could be no witnesses. He placed the key next to the bottle, and backed up to a commode that hid him from sight of anyone coming through the door. He unstrapped his bag and dropped it on the floor. He could clearly see Yvette lying on the bed her hips thrust invitingly upwards, lacking everything but a sign saying "come and get it." Ward would not be able to help himself. The trap was set.

* * *

Mitchell Ward was a stocky man, twice divorced, in his late forties, with receding brown hair. He strolled up the stairs and onto the corridor in sprightly fashion. Under his feet the nightingale board squealed loudly. He chuckled to himself. His second wife had told him she wanted rid of them because they made too much noise in the night, particularly when he was drunk. "They go or I do." she had told him during one blazing row. "It's bad enough you screw the staff at night without advertising to everyone when you come up the stairs." The boards stayed. Estelle did not. No, he thought it wasn't Estelle. Estelle was the wife of a charity administrator at the party, and he had rutted her like a hog in the stables before she indignantly demanded to be returned to her husband. Silly bitch, nothing like the flame-haired beauty he had just slipped into when the power went out.

Money brought him all the attention he could handle, and all the sex he could want. Then that American idiot had turned up, threatening to take it all away because his "employers" had noticed large sums of cash disappearing. As he had explained, sometimes investments go bad, or just take longer to come to fruition. A bodyguard had given the messenger a message of his own, a good kicking and sent him packing.

"Bad investments" was an understatement. His bitch of an ex-wife was trying to clean him out, and threatening to drag his name through the mud with a series of lurid kiss-and-tell stories. He had married her for her looks, nothing else. His lawyers were telling him to reach a settlement, but her demands were ridiculous. He would rather cut off his own hand before he caved into them. She came with nothing except her looks and left with much more. What gave her the right to sell tales of the special parties he enjoyed? Every rich man had orgies, it was a status symbol, and besides hadn't she been a willing participant once upon a time? He wondered if he should not get his contacts to get rid of her for good. It would be one way of cutting his losses.

Ward mused on the idea as he inserted his key into the lock. It did not turn, and the door opened instead. That was unusual, so obviously one of the staff had not been paying proper attention. They would cop hell in the morning. He pushed the door open and the thunderous look on his face was replaced by one of pure lust when he saw Yvette. That was why the door was unlocked, she had wanted him to find her and take her where she was!

He chuckled lasciviously. Yvette lay there with her pelvis thrust high waiting for him. She would let him ride her the way that that prude Esther would not, driving deep until he reached that explosion of light that had been denied him by the redhead. Three in a row, and none knew of the others. He closed the door behind him, and unzipped his trousers. He stepped out of them dropping them on the floor and stroked his engorged member as he approached Yvette. Lift up the satin and slide right in. Fuck that American, and Esperanza, and the ginger girl, Yvette knew how to please a man of his standing.

He pushed her skirts up over her back and pushed into her, ignoring the strangely cool feeling of her flesh. He had expected wetness and warmth, not cold. Maybe it was the alcohol. He pushed deeper and grabbed a handful of her hair to pull her head up by, the way he liked it and felt the stickiness. Leaning over he realised what it was. Blood. Yvette's blood was staining the sheets of his bed. He was fucking a corpse!

He recoiled in horror then suddenly realised he could not breathe. It took his brain a few moments to realise that it was not fear that obstructed his airways, but an arm across his throat, holding him in a vice-like grip. He panicked, kicking over the table with the brandy and glasses. The contents poured onto the floor while he fought against the demonic force that held him tight, and then suddenly released him. He collapsed on his front gasping for air. His crushed larynx turned his voice into a raspy whisper as he stared at the feet of the black clad figure. "What do you want?"

Staniek looked down at him. "They got your message, and have sent you a reply." He grabbed Ward's right ankle, pressed the Beretta to the back of the knee and pulled the trigger. Ward screamed, an ear-splitting shriek of pain at the feel of the bullet tearing through his joint. He could taste blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue in the struggle.

Staniek grabbed a pillow from the bed and pressed it over Ward's head, forcing it into the carpet. Brandy flowed from the broken bottle and Ward felt it soaking his hair. The pain was unbelievable, it could not be happening to him. He felt like an observer watching his own execution. When Staniek destroyed his left knee, he came back to himself. The excruciating pain made it all too real. Ward lost control of his bladder, the smell of urine filling the air and mingling with that of brandy, the coppery smell of blood and sweat.

He felt himself being rolled over and stared into the face of his killer. Sensing what was to come he clamped his right hand over his left elbow. Staniek shook his head slowly and stepped on Ward's left forearm and shot him in the hand. Ward pulled the crippled hand to his chest, any thought of protecting his elbows forgotten. Staniek let him do so, and ignoring the moans and pleading, fired into his right hand. This time Ward merely whimpered, his eyes glazing and staring at Staniek.

"You took something that did not belong to you. In the old days, they'd cut your hands off. Now, well we do it differently." Staniek shrugged. "Now those that you stole from are going to take the most precious thing you have in return."

He sat Ward up, ignoring the sobs of the crippled millionaire. He pressed the silenced pistol against the base of Ward's skull. Ward felt the hot metal burning his neck but made no attempt to move. Staniek normally remained devoid of emotion during the critical stages of a hit, but this time he felt contempt and disgust. Killing the fat slob would probably do the world a favour. He pulled the trigger.

The sensory explosion in his head shocked him. For a moment he was disorientated, wondering if the the gun had misfired and blown up, but no, Ward was slumped on the floor, blood and brains mixing with the brandy and urine. The headache returned, blindingly strong, yet familiar, tinged with... recognition. Another Immortal was close by. But where? He hadn't felt anything before. Surely this wasn't a set-up? Thoughts of betrayal raced through his mind before a moaning from the bed answered his questions.

So this mission had an added bonus. Little Miss Yvette was a new Immortal. He had killed her earlier and activated her Immortality. Realisation came swiftly. _That_ was the cause of the headaches, not the lights at all. Well, he'd have this girl's head. Ten meg and a bonus Quickening. Not bad for a night's work.

Yvette quickly pulled herself up from the bed, pulling down her dress, before shock took over. She saw the blood, her blood on the bed and touched her head which throbbed worse than anything she had ever felt before. Her hands came back sticky with her own blood. She screamed and turned around when she saw Staniek who grinned. Clearly she knew nothing about her latent Immortality.

"Batarde!" she spat and then saw her lover, dead on the floor. Concern for Ward showed clearly on her face.  
"Non!" she cried repeatedly, and scrambled over to his body on her knees and cradled him. Staniek crossed to his bag. He dropped the Beretta in, and picked up his sword. Flexing his shoulders he walked back towards her.  
"No," she sobbed. "Vous l'avez tuė! Meutrier" she screamed at Staniek's back. Revenge was the only thought on her mind as she lunged for him. "Batarde!"

Her momentum carried her onto the blade as Staniek swung it in a lazy arc. No time to scream, or realise what had happened. Staniek opened his arms to embrace the Quickening. In seconds it was over, a short one needing little recovery time. That was just as well. The discharge had set alight the bedding and the brandy soaked carpet. Hungry flames licked closer to the two bodies on the floor.

The disturbance caused by the Quickening was bound to attract attention. He thrust the sword in the bag and zipped it closed. The fire was fortunate and would cover his tracks. He bounded out of the room, ignoring the nightingale boards in the corridor and bolted down the stairs and out of the Chateau. He was well into the Orchards when the first guards reached the bedroom.

* * *

**Notes on Chapter 1:**

_Capodecina – Literally a "commander of 10" in the Sicilian Mafia._

_Batarde –Bastard (French)_

_Vous l'avez tuė – You killed him (French)_

_Meutrier – Murderer (French)_

_Sharp eyed readers will notice similarities between this opening chapter and that of "Oni" by Marc Olden. This is not plagiarism, but homage to Marc who is one of my favourite authors. I liked the way Oni, aka Viktor Poltava, was introduced so adopted and adapted it to suit my purposes. Rest in peace Marc._


	2. Chapter 2: Aftermath

**WATCHER-REPORT: ANDRZEJ STANIEK REPORT#357**

* * *

France is in shock over the death of Mitchell Ward. Newspapers and broadcasters have been buzzing since the story broke, and the usual talking heads have been rolled out to eulogise over him. His charity work gained him renown across the world, and the fact that he made Normandy his main personal residence endeared him greatly the local populace.

The Police have no clear idea as to the motive or to the killer. A robbery gone wrong was dismissed out of hand as nothing was taken. Information being allowed out is limited, although they have confirmed that Ward suffered serious injuries, consistent with torture and execution. Nothing further has been released to the media. That has been grist to the rumour-mill however.

The most likely option is a mafia hit. A terrorist attack is possible but unlikely. Journalists have dismissed that theory on the basis that if it was, why not attack the whole party? Terrorism works on mass impact. Why bother to cover their tracks by setting the room alight? Other less believable theories being circulated suggest that Ward was the victim of some bizarre cult killing, members of which somehow infiltrated the party.

Meanwhile the Police are concentrating their efforts on questioning the partygoers in their search for the hitman. Suspicion has fallen on one hapless individual at the party. It seems that Ward had sex with the wife of one of the guests during the party, something she later confessed to. Her husband has been suggested as a possible culprit. In my opinion that is extremely unlikely. Ward picked on the vulnerable, and the man in question is too timid to be capable of this.

They're wasting their time. This bears all the hallmarks of Staniek. This is his handiwork, the diversion, and the execution, everything down to the fire which has no obvious cause. Our agents in the police confirm that there were no traces of an ignition source, although they confirmed the presence of an accelerant, possibly alcohol, around the bodies.

A Mafia hit is the most likely motive. Staniek was in France three days before the killing, and there are other indicators. Before leaving the US he met someone in the back of a limo. For obvious reasons I could not get too close, but with hindsight I can only assume that it was a capo. Ward's connections were somewhat questionable to say the least. Allegations that his charities laundered money have circulated periodically, although nothing was ever proven. Watcher HQ Europe managed to obtain a copy of the autopsy. Ward suffered severe trauma, probably gunshot wounds to both hands. I don't think it is too great a leap of imagination to say that he had a terminal case of sticky fingers.

The fire in the bedroom is easier to explain – a Quickening. Yvette Bousier, Ward's maid and lover, was listed in our files as being a suspected pre-Immortal. I can only assume that Staniek activated her Immortality before taking her head. Her remains showed some evidence of major trauma unrelated to the fire or her decapitation. A colleague has informed me that a close friend of Yvette, an Immortal by the name of Jean-Marc DuBois, is so incensed at her death that he has sworn to find her killer and avenge her. If I were he I would leave well enough alone.

One can't help but admire Staniek's prowess, the whole thing smells of class and professionalism. The way he killed the generator and entered the house unnoticed in the confusion, sending the guards off on a wild goose chase. Brilliant, simply brilliant. This guy fully deserves the title Bushi-He truly is the ultimate warrior.

Staniek has gone to ground since the hit, although he is booked on a flight to Lisbon in three days time, under the alias Jens Moller. I leave for Lisbon tonight, the better to prepare for his arrival. The city has a small resident population of Immortals, none of whom we have ever recorded as having interaction with Staniek. Is he lying low, or head-hunting? Expect my next report from Lisbon within seven days when I have information to share.

Marc Showler


	3. Chapter 3: Pale Horse

_**Chapter 3: "Pale"**_

_TRANSCRIPT OF AUDIO REPORT BY MARC SHOWLER_

**WATCHER REPORT –****ANDRZEJ** STANIEK. REPORT #357a

I'm sat at a café on the Rua de Magdelena, Lisbon. I'm dictating this interim report mainly through reasons of practicality. It would after all make me look very conspicuous if I was seen carrying a video camera around in this sector of Lisbon, well away from the main tourist areas. However, given the large number of office workers taking lunch in this street at the multitude of café's, bars and restaurants, I can use a Dictaphone and laptop without so much as a second glance. Staniek is sat across the street from me at an exterior table of the Café Santiago, meeting a person I do not recognise.

I think it has something to do with last night. About 11:30 local time last night Staniek received a phone call at his hotel. As he wasn't in, the reception took a message. The caller asked him to meet here today. I don't think that this has anything to do with the execution of Ward. I do believe however that Staniek's companion is another Immortal, simply by his body language when he approached the café. Both he and his companion are similarly attired, smart clothes that make them appear inconspicuous.

When Staniek arrived I heard them address each other as Moller, and Krannix. I've searched on the name Krannix and the computer turned up two results, but neither is, nor can they be correct. Krannix is either an unlisted alias or one who slipped through the net. As for the two records we have, one has been dead for over ten years. He was confirmed as being killed by Duncan MacLeod, way back in 1983. The other is a big Samoan or Tongan guy. The Immortal, if indeed that is what he is, at the table is white. As yet I've been unable to see more than a profile view of Staniek's companion. When I do, I'll search the database on appearances.

(Pause in dictation)

They've been sat there now for nearly a half-hour. I can't quite make out what they're talking about, but it's probably a job knowing Staniek. With the exception of one, another Pole, I've never known Staniek to socialise with other Immortals. The records show some contacts previously but other than Lukasz Sagnowski, this is the first non-combat meeting since I was assigned to him.

(Here there is a pause of about thirty-seconds filled only with the sound of a small van going past)

Hmm, just caught something about DuBois. I couldn't hear the rest because of the van. I think that Staniek has been told that DuBois is looking for Yvette's killer. Give up DuBois. If you let it go, you'll have a nice long life. If you don't, well, you won't stand a chance. Naturally Staniek looks unconcerned but why should he be otherwise? Kill number 114: Jean-Marc DuBois.

My advice to Dubois' watcher is to apply for a new assignment pretty soon.

(Pause in dictation)

Great, the other guy has just turned round briefly, long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his face. He looks rugged and carries himself in the style of an experienced warrior. He's seen a lot this one. His hair is fairly short and he has a scar running down one side of his face. I'm searching the database now.

(Another pause followed by a series of beeps as the computer registers results of the search.)

Oh my God! In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, protect us! This can't be right! It's impossible!

(Another pause. Again the computer beeps as results are found.)

Oh shit! Same result again. Talk about an unholy alliance! Staniek's companion is none other than Melvin Koren!


	4. Chapter 4: Lighting the Fuse

**_St. Germain Cemetery,  
Fontaine-sous-Briovere, Normandy, France_**

Jean-Marc DuBois was livid with anger. Standing by Yvette's grave where he had laid her to rest a few days before a whirlwind of questions tore through his head. Who had killed her, and why? She had no knowledge of her potential, yet she was slain. 'It was part of the Game' he told himself, but then rebutted that argument. 'She was new. New by minutes in fact when whoever killed Ward took her head as well. She never stood a chance.'

At least he had taught her to fight unarmed. He never could decide if it was to defend herself against experienced Immortals in search of easy prey, or to fight of unwanted advances from a man like Mitchell Ward. 'Except they weren't unwanted, were they?' the internal voice said. DuBois willed it to go away. He had never cared about Ward, a man whom he found to be a pompous ass, and a rich, lecherous bore, too full of a sense of his own self-importance to be bothered about such trifling little things such as other people's feelings. In his opinion, whoever had executed the socialite had done the world a favour. At least until he killed Yvette.

Yvette was different, seriously different. A filthy mouth at times, but wasn't that part of the attraction. Waif-like, seemingly innocent, but a raging siren lurked underneath that facade. Was DuBois jealous of her relationship with Ward? Was he ever? How often had he dreamt of having her in bed with him, giving free reign to her tongue, a delicious stream of expletives in her husky voice as they made love?

He knew that she saw their relationship in a purely platonic sense, with him as an elder brother figure. He too saw himself as her protector, a guardian against other Immortals... and dangerous men. But his feelings had run so much deeper. He had hated the fact that she gave herself so willingly to Ward, whom she believed loved her. DuBois knew better. He loved her, whereas Ward loved only himself, and yet she had clung to the dream, clung to the illusion that she had turned the rich man's head and won his heart, turning her back on the one man who truly loved her in the process. The only thing that cut deeper than that rejection was her death, her cold-blooded slaughter.

The only thing that he could do was to avenge her death by killing her murderer. He knew that it was another Immortal who had killed her, and he would find whoever it was, wherever they were. Let his bumbling French police colleagues think that the assassin had deliberately set the fire to destroy forensic evidence. DuBois knew better. One day soon vengeance would be his. He would kill her murderer, or die trying. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

He knelt down and kissed the headstone. Tears filling his eyes he stood and looked at her grave one more time. "Bonne nuit mon amour. Dort paisablement"

* * *

**_Orly Airport  
Paris,  
France._**

Queuing at Border Control Staniek mused on the new information he had received from Krannix. DuBois was an irritant, and nothing more. However, he would have to be eliminated if he was not to seriously compromise the job he had taken on, particularly when it meant travelling back to the East. That was a complication he could not afford.

Neither could he discount the possibility that Krannix had warned DuBois that he was coming to France. If the information he had found when looking into Krannix's background was anywhere near accurate, he was not above such intrigues. As a precaution he had deliberately taken a different route back, via Madeira and Oporto, but the enemy could still be vigilant.

In any case DuBois would die tomorrow night. A cautious man did not chase two rabbits at the same time. Dispatch the annoying Frenchman and then he would have a clear field to pursue the next job. He had charged Krannix seventy-five million Swiss Francs plus expenses, with thirty million to be paid upfront and deposited in a numbered account. That was a hefty sum, yet the old man had not baulked and simply agreed.

A telephone call from the airport confirmed the deposit had been made. An insurance against betrayal.

As for DuBois, he needed a bait to draw the man out into the open, particularly as he did not know what he looked like. He was prepared to risk DuBois recognising him first but the man needed to be taken out. Sometimes a gamble could pay off. He made a mental note to check the Deaths section of the local papers when he got to Normandy. If the French papers were anything like their English counterparts he would find what he was looking for in there.

He handed his passport to the Controller who stamped it, then handed it back.  
"Bienvenue, en France Monsieur Moller"  
"Merci."

Tomorrow night.

* * *

**Notes on Chapter 4**

_Translations:_

"_Bonne nuit mon amour" – Good night my love (French)_

"_Dort paisablement" – Sleep peacefully (French)_


	5. Chapter 5: Trojan Horse

**Chapter 5: "Trojan Horse"**

_**Saint Germain Cemetery,**  
**Fontaine-sous-Briovere, Normandy**._

It was shortly before noon when Staniek entered the cemetery. He walked around the cemetery taking careful note of entry and exit points. The first thing he always did when in situ was look for a way out in case things turned bad. Doing so also allowed him to spot potential ambush points, areas that he could use, and that could be used against him. Satisfied that he was not under observation he began to look for the grave. Many of the newer graves were adorned with simple wooden crosses. He had hoped that the grave he sought would have a proper headstone, but if not a minor change of plan was required.

He found Yvette's grave slightly to the left of the central pathway. It had a marble headstone inscribed 'Yvette Bousier 1974 -1996' followed by a host of sentimental messages, ending with a name, Jean-Marc. DuBois was obviously a wealthy man if he had had such an ornate stone erected so quickly. Staniek dropped the plastic bag he was carrying on the floor, and then looked around. He was alone. He removed a lump hammer and a can of red spray paint from the bag. Taking the hammer in his right hand he swung it at the side of the stone. Cracks immediately appeared across the front. A second hit saw a large shard fly off. He switched sides and struck again. The already weakened stone gave way, part of the top section falling onto the ground. A large crack ran to the base of the stone. He put the hammer back in the bag, donned a pair of latex gloves and picked up the can of paint. The sound of the ball bearing in the can echoed loudly in the quiet air as he shook it. He gave it a short test spray onto the ground next the headstone. It sputtered out a few drops of paint before emitting a strong jet.

Carefully he began to spray a large 'D' on the headstone. He continued spraying until the word 'DÉVERGONDÉE' was on the stone. Dévergondée, a perfect moniker for a woman who whored herself to a rich man. The trap was set, all that it needed was someone to take the bait. Staniek returned the spray can to the carrier bag and walked away. He was still alone. Heading east he skirted the small chapel in the middle of the cemetery depositing the carrier bag and gloves in a large rubbish bin at the rear. Rotting flowers filled the bin and he buried the bag underneath. Whether DuBois showed up today or not, the furore would bring him out into the open where he would be vulnerable. Patience and the mulberry leaf becomes silk, said the Chinese. Patience and planning were the key to any successful operation. Staniek seated himself on a nearby bench and waited.

* * *

**_Saint Germain Cemetery,  
Fontaine-sous-Briovere.  
30 Minutes Later_**

Hours of painstaking examination had revealed nothing. No clues, no hints, nothing. The murders of both Yvette and Ward had been almost clinical. Frustrated to the point exhaustion DuBois had left. His colleagues had refused to accept that a professional killer acting alone was the perpetrator. 'Back off. You're too close to this personally' they had told him, instead focussing on the poor unfortunate who had been cuckolded by the millionaire.

Everything screamed at him that this was the work of one man. 'It takes a killer to know a killer,' he had thought to himself. Even pointing to his experience in counter-espionage had not swayed them. The _Police Nationale_ had databanks full of similar cases, many he had made himself, but the _Gendarmerie Nationale_ had not wanted to know. Sooner or later it would pass to the _Police _but in the meanwhile the investigations were still under the control of the Gendarmes.

Inter-agency tension was nothing new, the left hand and the right hand of law enforcement still fought each other for dominance, with the military gendarmes resenting the gradual creep of the civilian police into the towns and conurbations that were traditionally theirs. 'There is no proof of organised crime involvement' was the official line, and that was that as far the _adjudant_was concerned.

DuBois knew better, much better. Centuries of experience meant that he knew it was the work of one man. Gut instinct however was not enough. Serving under Murat in Naples after Napoleon had raised him to the throne had shown DuBois how organised crime worked first hand, even in its infancy. It had grown ever since and he had spent so many years fighting against it, so long in fact that he could confidently state organised crime involvement and be proved right. But still they did not want to know.

Disillusioned and disgusted he had stalked out of the meeting, not knowing or caring where he was going. He had gone to a cafe, and sat at a streetside table sipping a coffee, mulling over it all. Yvette. The anger was washed away by regret. He would go and see her, talk to her and clear his mind, letting it all slip away. Perhaps it would allow him to find a way to convince those in charge to listen to him.

He walked into the almost deserted cemetery, feet following the now familiar path to Yvette's resting place. The warm summer sun beat down on his back, easing the tension in his muscles as he turned left. Her marble headstone stood out like a beacon amongst the wooden crosses, a token of his love drawing him in, oddly comforting... and desecrated. DuBois could not have been more shocked if someone had tried to take his head on holy ground. The red paint stood out in stark contrast to the marble itself, assaulting his senses. He blinked, not registering the words on the stone at first, feeling the hot sting of tears filling his eyes. Almost trancelike he stepped closer to the grave, his mind finally recognising the words graphitised on it, yet refusing to acknowledge them.

"Why?" he whispered, "Why?"

He looked closer still, seeing the damage wrought on the grave, the pieces of stone missing. "No," he screamed, "No, no, no! Why Yvette? Why her? Why now?"

His screams echoed around the silent cemetery, ringing back at him mockingly. He collapsed to his knees, his head in his hands sobbing. His world felt like it was collapsing around him. First Yvette was taken away, and now her grave had been desecrated. _Why was she being targeted?_

The sensation snapped him back to alertness, just before a hand touched his shoulder.  
"Calm down my friend. I should say you look rather strained." said a voice in a crisp German accent.  
DuBois turned and looked at Staniek, his gaze murderous, eyes reddened.  
"What are you doing here?"

Taking care to appear as harmless and inoffensive as possible, Staniek stepped back. So this was DuBois, the policeman. The ruse had had the desired effect, but it would not be long before his policeman's instincts were aroused. He made a conscious effort not to grin, instead putting on a face of concern, pretending to be taken aback by the venom in DuBois' voice.

"Take it easy my friend. I am doing the same as you. I was simply visiting a grave over there." Staniek pointed towards the chapel. "I heard you shout and came over to investigate, although I did not sense you until I got closer."

Taking his hand from DuBois shoulder he looked at the damaged headstone, shaking his head. "Vandals! Why would anyone commit such a senseless act? I haven't seen damage like this since the war."

DuBois nodded and said nothing. _Inoffensive and compassionate _Staniek thought. He reached out to touch the paint and examined his fingertips. "It has not had time to dry completely. Let me see what I can do."

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed the stone removing most of the paint.  
"It is not much of an improvement I'm afraid but is the best I can do right now."

DuBois finally found his voice. "It is appreciated."

Staniek looked at the headstone, toying with an idea. Krannix had said DuBois was hunting her killer, for personal reasons. _Just how personal?_

Staniek nodded and pretended to read what remained of the inscription "Yvette Bousier? A pretty name, much like Anne-Marie over there. Yet so young, so very, very young. What do we do when out mortal loves are taken from us? It never gets easier."

DuBois' voice cracked. "I loved her but we were just friends. She was my student-to-be, until someone killed her twice." He turned away, beginning to weep again. Staniek smiled at the Frenchman's back. This would be easier than he had hoped. He gently rested his hand on DuBois' shoulder again, before extending it to him offering to help pull him up.

"I shall call the police unless you want to do it?"

DuBois took the outstretched hand. "I am the police. I'll register this myself, but thank you. My name is DuBois. Jean Marc DuBois."

"I am Jens Moller. Pleased to meet your acquaintance." He placed a hand in the small of DuBois' back. "You have had quite a shock sir and I think you could do with a drink. I know a place just down the way, a small establishment but welcoming and private enough. We can talk better there."

**Notes on Chapter 5**

_Translations:_

"_Dévergondée" – (French) Slut (US), Slag (UK)_

"_Gendarmerie Nationale" – (French) National Gendarmerie_

"_Police Nationale" – (French) National Police_

"_Adjudant" – (French) Warrant Officer in the Gendarmerie_

_The French law enforcement sphere is divided into two organisations the Gendarmerie Nationale, and the Police Nationale.I have separated these from the Douane which is a Customs Service rather than a true law enforcement body. The Gendarmerie is essentially a military police force operating in the civil sphere. This is common in many European countries, (including the Netherlands and Spain) but less so outside. The closest comparison I can draw for is the delineation between the US Dept. for Homeland Security and the Dept. for Justice. The Gendarmerie looks after policing in smaller towns as well as airport security, military police functions, and judge-led criminal investigations. The Police look after policing in the larger towns and cities, border security and counter-terrorism. Over the years there have been tensions between the two, often leading to political paralysis, particularly where their respective jurisdictions overlap. Counter-terrorism is one area; the GN has it's own counter-terrorist team who perform SWAT functions, while the PN work more on the intelligence and prevention side._


	6. Chapter 6: Sinon

**Chapter 6: "Sinon"**

* * *

**_Restaurant de Saint-Laud du Coutances,  
Rue du Pont de Vire, Fontaine-sous-Briovere_**

DuBois raised the glass to his lips and drained it. Cognac. One of the finest. Give the German credit, he certainly knew his drink. He could feel it scorching his throat, warming him throughout, making him feel better after the day's events. But through his drunken haze something still nagged away at him. His policeman's training refused to accept the coincidence of another Immortal being at the same cemetery at the same time. Moller had only sensed him when he approached or so he said. It seemed a little far-fetched. The German had something to hide. He was sure of it. But what? The cognac bottle sat between them on the table and DuBois poured himself another drink, then topped up Moller's glass. The German nodded his thanks and took a drink. DuBois' eyes never left his companion.

Unable to ignore the detective's instinct any longer DuBois began to probe. "It is not often that one finds a German in a French cemetery, let alone visiting the grave of a lost love."  
Staniek's eyes narrowed. '_Astute, Monsieur DuBois, very adroit. Mark that one against the police training. Well little bloodhound, try this scent'._  
He sipped his drink before answering. "Very sharp my friend, very sharp. Indeed you are correct. Passing myself off as German has a certain – convenience – shall we say? I am a Sorb by birth."

"A Serb?"

"Non, a Sorb. You many have heard of us described as Wends or Wendish. It makes no difference, they are used interchangeably. We are a Slavonic people originating in Germany, south of Berlin in fact. However we are not a nation as such, so we travel the world as Germans, although I can pass for any Slav nationality you care to mention, which has its uses, especially for us Immortals."

"My apologies Moller. The death of Yvette has made me somewhat paranoid. I fear I may have offended you."

"I take no offence at all my friend. It is understandable at this time. Sometimes we all have things to hide, us more than others."

DuBois took a long drink from his glass. The anger he felt at Yvette's death and the obstinate behaviour of his colleagues was getting to him. Perhaps he was too close, but he could not let it go. Either way it was not the fault of Moller. There was no need to take it out on him. All he had done was offer support.

Staniek allowed DuBois a few moments with his thoughts before continuing. A sprinkling of truth would make the lie a little more believable. "I agree that it would seem strange for a German to be visiting a French cemetery. Perhaps I could put your mind at ease? I once fought under the Emperor's banner. When he trounced the Prussians and raised the Grand Duchy I came under his eagles. My ancestral lands were joined to it, even though we had a Saxon king,"

DuBois recalled those days with some fondness. "They were heady days. I served under Murat myself, the Emperor's brother-in-law, and later King of Naples."

"No? Really? Murat had a special place in our hearts for his part in the creation of the Duchy. Not as special as the Prince Poniatowski, but we saw him as a kinsman as much as a Marechal."

"It was then that you met her?"

"Indeed. Anne-Marie was part of the diaspora here in France. She was Polish by descent although born and raised in France. We met before Tilsit and enjoyed much happiness. I came back from Borodino and we were to be married, but news of the disaster had reached home before I could and the poor girl was married off to a farrier. He killed her shortly after in a drunken rage. Nobody paid much attention though because of the fear of impending invasion." Staniek took a slow drink, careful not to consume too much alcohol.

"What did you do?" DuBois asked.

Staniek looked at him and shrugged. "Tavern brawls often ended in knife fights. Who really knows what happened?"

DuBois looked down at his drink before picking up the bottle. Staniek declined the offer of more but watched as DuBois filled his own to near the brim.

"I just wish I knew why she was killed." he said at length. "She was so young, so new, so...beautiful."  
"Perhaps the killer was an opportunist? Wrong place, wrong time as it were?"  
"Maybe. No in fact almost definitely. I've never known anyone actively seek and hunt pre-immortals. Legends yes, tales for sure, but I'm not naive enough to think they aren't out there. It does not matter. When he killed her, he killed a part of me. I'll have him one day. I'll find out who he is, and I'll pursue him to the ends of the earth, and to hell and back if I have to. Him _and_the scum who desecrate graves."

Staniek paused, breaking the flow of conversation, seemingly contemplating what DuBois had exclaimed. '_No need to go that far',_ he thought. He signalled the bartender who brought over a fresh bottle of cognac. Staniek paid him twice the value of the bottle, and the bartender took the hint, leaving them in private. If they wanted to drink themselves into oblivion it was no matter to him. Staniek watched him go before speaking again.

"Forgive me, but she died only recently?

"Yes. Three weeks ago at Montjoie Saint-Martin. She loved it here after escaping the_ bain_ outside Paris where she grew up. She had no other family, besides me so I buried her here."

"I read something about some murders in the north. She was the one at the Chateau? The maid for the rich man?"

DuBois nodded. "She was. Several times I suggested that she leave to find better employment but she insisted on staying. It cost her her life."

"You seem not to care about her employer Monsieur?"

"I did not. The man was slime. He acted as though he could buy whatever he wanted. More often than not he did. He will not be missed by me at least."

Staniek grunted. "The newspapers said that they died during a party. From other sources I have seen it was efficiently done."

DuBois assented. "Being with the police has its advantages. Whoever he was, he was skilled. It had to be a pro" He froze, something that his companion had said setting alarm bells ringing in his head. "What other sources?"

"Let us say our fields of expertise overlap. I was with TREVI, or what will soon be known as Europol."

DuBois relaxed. "I was right, you are hunting. Perhaps not an Immortal, but you are hunting someone aren't you?"

"It is more a case of hunting information. It is coincidence that our paths cross, but I suspect that the Pays-du-Nord may be developing as an entry point for narcotics."

DuBois snorted. "Just like ant's nests. Destroy one and another pops up elsewhere. The Gendarmes usually deal with that. My guess is they won't be happy when they find out you are in town."

Staniek shrugged. "Perhaps, but that is enough about me. You were telling me about Fraulein Bousier and Herr Ward." He poured more cognac, willing DuBois to take the bait.

DuBois ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "My gut says that this was a professional hit. Ward had questionable connections. Mafiosi we suspected."

Staniek uttered an exclamation of disgust. "Some sort of falling out?"

"I believe so. He never could stay away from the racetracks. He lost a small fortune that way once. Then there was his divorce. The lady in question wanted big money from him. That is reason enough to send him on his way. God knows they have sent people into the beyond for less. The Gendarmes however don't want to know. They still think that one of the partygoers was the culprit."

"You disagree?"

"There was no way he could have done it, despite the apparent motive. For a start he lacked the time to do so. He was an administrator for one of the charities. There are witnesses who put him at his desk late every night for the whole week preceding the murders, and his phone records check out. It seems that Ward had designs on his wife, and seduced or forced himself on her that night. The Gendarmes have decided that is motive enough. Besides, he is not an Immortal. It has to be a pro, an Immortal pro."

He stared distantly into his glass remembering the angry exchanges of earlier in the day.

Staniek drained his drink. _Now._

"I may know the man you are looking for."  
DuBois stopped. "How do you know that?"  
"I do not know for certain, but I recognise the handiwork. From your description and the information I have seen, I suspect it may be his work."

Staniek cleared his throat. "Back home, in Gelsenkirchen, we too have a Mafia problem. Ours are Albanian however, thanks to the problems in that armpit of a state. Refugees mainly, but that gives organised crime the chance to make a killing. People trafficking, prostitution, drugs. You need front men, respectable types to shield the activities. Occasionally they too are bumped off as people try to take control of new territories."

DuBois swallowed the last of his brandy, but his eyes never left Staniek's. "And?"

"A few years ago, one group had an upheaval. A nasty, bloody war with a rival group took place, and was then followed by an internal schism. Some Young Turks took over, sent the other lot packing, and needed to exert their authority. They did away with a powerful businessman who fronted for the other group. He thought he had sufficient security and Mafia protection."

"Like Ward?"

"Like Ward. Anyway someone got to him. An Immortal we believe by the name of Andrzej Staniek. Walked in, did the job, walked out again. Over fifty guards present, cameras, alarms, the lot. Worthless."

"How did he do it?"

"Made it look as though the captain of industry had fallen down the stairs of his apartment block. Security claimed to have shot an intruder, but no body was found. CCTV confirmed shots had been fired and showed the intruder being hit. Ten minutes later security placed a call claiming the building was on fire, and the alarms went off. Officially the call was never placed. Security did not log it."

"Staniek?"

Staniek nodded. "We think this Staniek pushed him down the stairs to make it look like he fell during the evacuation. Guy had his pyjamas around his ankles. Coroner called it a trip. Ice-cold this guy. A very dangerous adversary and this hit has his hallmark. You still want me to help you find him?"

DuBois looked visibly relieved, and clasped Staniek's hands. "I do. With the information you have already given me I already know my enemy. Thank you so much Moller. Thank you for everything."

Staniek shook his head. "You owe me nothing. If he is the man you want I will let you know. Any information I can get I will pass on. Do you live locally, or have an address I can leave it at? I would rather avoid the Gendarmerie headquarters if I can, seeing as I am here unofficially."

"I am staying at the other end of town, in the Hotel Dufonsier. There is a secure deposit service at the concierge desk. Use that as a drop off point. It's safe enough."

"I will, my friend, I will. Have you access to funds? I hate to press this point, but as you know sometimes information costs dearly."

DuBois nodded. "Funds are not a problem. I can access them immediately if needed. I've played the informant game myself. They are a necessary evil sometimes."

"So long as I can be sure."

"You can, although I do have one question for you."

Staniek looked at him.

"What do you get out of it when I kill him?"

"Me personally? Vey little in truth, save for the plaudits for bringing you on board. Should you be successful then TREVI takes some of the credit. Officially you will have been assisting a TREVI operation to bring down a wanted man, the lead suspect in the Albanin mafia case, the death of Mitchell Ward and several other European cases. I will smooth the process with your superiors, and explain the dead body. Agreed?

"That sounds fair"

"Good. I must warn you my friend, Staniek is a stone cold killer, an opponent like no other."

"So can I be. The difference is, he doesn't know I'm coming. Revenge is a very powerful dangerous motive."  
"It's also a very dangerous one, but as you wish. Do you mind if I share a taxi with you? I should get started on my enquiries. The sooner I start the better for you."

"Are you staying in the town Moller?"

"No, I must head for Saint-Lô tonight. I have use of a small office there."

They stood to leave the bar and headed for the door.

"I understand. God bless you Moller. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"You can repay me by not leaving that bottle behind. Take it with you, it will help you sleep. God knows you need it."

DuBois felt a smile break across his face for the first time in days. "Perhaps I ought to take it as you say. I need the rest."

* * *

**_Hotel Dufonsier,  
Fontaine-sous-Briovere_**

Sprawled out on the bed and staring at the ceiling DuBois thought about the information he had received. _Staniek, my Yvette's murderer. By God's grace you'll die by my blade._

He took a long swig from the bottle of cognac he had brought back with him. Thank God for Moller and his dedication to duty. He would now be on the way to his office to find the vital pieces of information that would bring him and the killer face-to-face. Fate is inexorable, but it was an ill wind indeed that blew no good. It was such a bittersweet coincidence that Moller was visiting the grave of a former lover too.

Lovers. Yvette. Her grave. DuBois closed his eyes and wept until sleep came to blot out the pain.


	7. Chapter 7: Machinations

**Chapter 7 "Machinations"**

**SNCF Marshalling yard,**

**Tessy-les-Pueles**

Gravel crunched under Staniek's feet as he crossed the marshalling yard. Old carriages and goods trucks lay rusting and redundant in the sidings located around the yard. An old shunter, yellow paint peeling, sat to his left. He stepped over the rails, and headed towards the sheds at the edge of the railway track.

Once on the asphalt Staniek turned and looked at his surroundings. Quiet and unused. Perfect. No chance of being disturbed tonight.

This is the end of the line DuBois. Grinning at his own joke he turned and strode out of the yard and headed north towards the town.

* * *

In the dim light she came to him, hair flowing in the breeze. He reached out to touch her. Laughing playfully she dodged out of the way. Teasing him, tempting him Encouraging him to follow her. He rose off the grass following her towards the fountain. Running yet never making up any distance. She turned and faced him. Her beauty radiated to him. Never before had she appeared like this to him. His soul ached to possess her, his arms to hold her... Behind her… a figure. Some sixth sense told warned him of danger...He never saw the sword. Just the flash of light as it arced through the air neatly severing her head from her body. Her face grinning as her head dropped to the floor. He willed himself to attack the figure but found that he couldn't move. He screamed her name, and groped for a weapon... anything would do. His sword turned to rope in his hand. There had to be something else...a stone! Mustering all his strength he hurled it at the figure...

"_Manman Bondye_!" yelled the maid. The ashtray hit the wall close to her. DuBois awoke with a start. The fountain was gone. He was alone, in a hotel room with the maid.

He pulled the sheets up around his waist. "I'm sorry." he said. "I... I was having a nightmare."  
The maid, an illegal, looked at him fearfully. "I'm sorry too" she said in broken French." I knocked and there was no answer. I thought that I could clean the room."  
DuBois sighed. The maid looked like he felt, on the edge, and as if the wrong choice of words could send her over. In her case that would be screaming down the hallway. He'd have a hard time explaining _that_ to the powers that be.

"Give me ten minutes" he replied, "then I will vacate the room." he said. The maid nodded, and left.

What was going on? The dream had seemed so real. DuBois swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hung his head between his knees. A little too much of the Cognac last night.

Last night.

Moller. Staniek. Message.

Ignoring the nausea of his hangover he hurriedly dressed and left the room.

* * *

Down in the lobby DuBois waited until the queue had cleared. With exaggerated politeness he stepped aside for the young man struggling with a cello case and opened the door to the outside. The warm air came rushing in and made his hangover return with a vengeance. The day promised to be a hot one. A seltzer was top of the menu, after he had checked for a message. He returned to the desk his stomach churning. Nerves or alcohol, he could not tell. Both probably.

"Salle 187. Has any one left a message for me?" he asked the clerk.  
"I shall see." The clerk walked the rack behind him. "I am afraid there is nothing in the rack. Are you expecting something in particular?"

DuBois passed over his ID card. The clerk examined it and then looked behind DuBois before turning his attention back, raising an eyebrow quizzically. Without turning around DuBois shook his head. _No, this was not an immigration matter. _

"Ah yes Monsieur DuBois, there is something for you. The night concierge collected it early this morning. The gentlemen did not leave his name"  
"No matter, I know who he is." DuBois took the letter and left the hotel. He walked down the street heading for the river. Seltzer was abandoned in favour of coffee, strong coffee. A small cafe overlooking the river served his purpose. Once he had been served he fingered the package. Inside would be the information leading him to Yvette's killer. Hands trembling he began to read.

_DuBois,  
_

_Staniek is still here in Normandy. There is an old SNCF goods yard, three miles south of town, on the edge of Tessy-les-Pueles. You will find him there. This place is quiet and isolated and suits Staniek perfectly. It is ruined and run-down, and few people have cause to go there as I am sure you know. It has everything he needs – a place to hide, some security and of course power. A brief check of electrical records suggests there is a slight loss of voltage in the area. While some circuits are undoubtedly live, I suggest that the pylons are being tapped. If my contacts are incorrect, you may be onto the biggest drugs lab find in recent years!_

_This information I fear, did not come cheaply. My contacts needed their palms crossing with more than a few pieces of silver it must be said. Regrettably therefore I must ask you for remuneration of the amount of ten thousand US dollars. This is steep but I know that you value this information highly. I have paid this from personal funds as a gesture of goodwill towards you. _

_I must ask that you leave the money with the concierge at the hotel for me to collect. That way I can be sure of reimbursement whatever the outcome. It is not that I doubt you my friend, but many a lucky stroke has won a fight. _

_You will have to move quickly. My sources indicate that he will soon be moving on. There are rumours of a drug cartel supplying heroin through Malta bidding for his services. Be at the yard after dark, I suggest after 10pm tonight and you will find Staniek._

_Bonne Chance,_

_JM_

DuBois closed his eyes. Tonight. Tonight he would come face to face with Yvette's murderer, avenge her death and she could finally rest.  
"God Bless you Moller. You truly are heaven sent."

* * *

**Notes on Chapter 7**

_Translations:_

_Manman Bondye – (Haitian Creole) Mother of God. _

_Bonne Chance – (French) Good Luck. _

_SNCF – State-owned French rail operator._


	8. Chapter 8: Beware your friend a 100-fold

_Dufonsier Hotel, Fontaine-sous-Briovere._

"Is there somewhere we could talk in private?" DuBois asked the clerk.

"Of course, please follow me to the night concierge office." DuBois followed the clerk into the office and closed the door behind him. The clerk indicated to a chair and leant nervously against the desk. "Is there something in particular I can help you with Monsieur?"

DuBois coughed and then replied. "Yes, a colleague of mine, a Herr Moller. I need to leave this package for him to collect. I will be away until late this evening, and may not be back in time to meet him. Would you oblige?"

"But of course. We like to assist the Police where possible. It makes for a mutually beneficial arrangement."

DuBois held back a snort. He understood the implications of the clerk's words. Forget the illegal workers racket and the package would be delivered intact. The sly fellow probably thought it contained drugs. Let him think what he liked, as long as Moller got his money. The last thing he needed was a pissed-off TREVI agent hunting him thinking he had been stiffed.

"Indeed it does, and thanks." Smiling he held it towards the clerk and shook it. "Nothing breakable, and nothing ticking."

The clerk laughed and took the package from DuBois who watched him lock it in the safe. He stood up from the chair and walked back to the lobby. When he reached the counter he pulled a 100 Franc note from his pocket and slid it over. "For the service charge."

The clerk nodded his thanks, "Merci."

DuBois climbed the stairs and headed to his room. He needed to sleep and prepare for tonight. Most of his battles had been spur-of-the-moment challenges but this one needed proper preparation. Rest and concentration were required. Once in his room he locked the door and unplugged the telephone. He removed his sword from its case and touched the edge lightly with his thumb, watching the blood well up instantaneously. It was sharp enough to do the job. He placed it back in the case on the floor in case of more nightmares and lay down to sleep.

When he awoke DuBois showered and stretched, preparing his body for the forthcoming battle. Sword case in hand he made his way to the bar and picked through a light salad and sipped mineral water. The hangover had gone, replaced with a sense of apprehension. Nothing new there, it was the same every time he prepared to face another Immortal. The anger had not gone away, but it had changed and become a cold rage. He would channel it when he faced his enemy.

At 2145 he left the hotel and walked down the street looking for a taxi. Dropping his case in the back seat he climbed in next to it and fastened the belt. "The SNCF yard, Tessy."

The Algerian driver looked at him in the rear view mirror and started to protest when DuBois showed him his ID. The driver shrugged and said nothing, which suited DuBois just fine. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat.

The driver pulled away from the kerb, and sped towards the main street.

* * *

_SNCF Marshalling yard, Tessy-les-Pueles, 20 minutes later_

DuBois paid the taxi driver and stepped out of the cab carrying his sword case. Behind him the taxi sped off back to the town. The silence of the night was complete once the sound of the taxi engine had faded into the distance. The driver had made no secret of his desire to leave as soon as possible. The generous tip he had received had not hurt either.

The yard was deserted as his information had suggested. A few rickety old trucks and boxcars lay idle in the sidings. A shunter looked like it hadn't seen a paint job this side the War. Moller had better be right, he thought. Immortal or not it would be highly embarrassing for a member of the Police to be discovered by the local Gendarmes prowling an old rail yard with an antique sword.

Clicking the clasps of his case he removed the straight Dragoon sword, feeling the reassurance and familiarity of the hilt in his hand. He hid the case and scabbard behind the fence before walking further into the yard. The smells of old wood, engine oil and rust teased his nostrils. Taking a deep breath he continued on, searching, familiarising himself with the location. His eyes picked out the cables running overhead. So far Moller's information had been good. Silently he whispered his thanks to the TREVI agent.

In the centre of the yard stood a solitary building, the station terminus. The yard opened up around it, making it a perfect ground for fighting. The old bunkers were small and offered little cover for an ambush. Cautiously he headed towards it sword pointing to the sky.  
A hundred yards away he stopped dead in his tracks. He let the waves of recognition wash over him. He was not alone.  
"Staniek!" he called, "I know that you are here, come on out and face me."  
He looked around slowly hoping to catch a glimpse of his adversary. There was nothing. He continued walking. The gravel of the rail beds crunching under his feet, he crossed the tracks towards the asphalt outside the terminus. A dim white light shone from a single bulb protruding from the wall. It cast eerie shadows over the building and the surrounding bunkers. The presence was stronger there.  
"Staniek, I can feel you. Face me!"

His shout echoed off the buildings, mocking him. "Face me, damn you, face me!"

Taking a deep breath Staniek stepped out of the shadows, behind DuBois. "I'm here."  
DuBois froze. The voice sounded familiar. _No, it couldn't be_. He turned and faced Staniek, the horror of betrayal written all over his face.

"Moller? You're Staniek?"  
Staniek tilted his head. "So good of you to drop in."

"I should have known when I saw you at the cemetery. That was no coincidence. You're the one who murdered Yvette! You're the desecrater of graves!"  
Staniek stared impassively at him. DuBois stared back and slowly pointed his sword at Staniek. "Sutemi."  
Staniek's smile was icy. "You speak Japanese DuBois? Now I am impressed. Very well, to the death it is. Only one will walk away."

Carefully he eased out of his overcoat and removed his sword. The light arced off the Swedish blade as he pointed it towards DuBois. "Lay on."

They circled each other carefully neither giving ground. Staniek's eyes sparkled as his gaze locked onto DuBois. Examining, analysing, searching for a weakness. DuBois thrust at Staniek, who parried. "You'll have to do better than that." he said.  
He swung back at DuBois who blocked, and then charged in again. Staniek dodged quickly and tapped his opponent's blade. Minutes passed with neither man scoring a hit on the other. The sound of metal on metal filled the air as the cycle of stroke, parry, counter-stroke continued until both men broke by common consent.

DuBois switched hands, from right to left, wiping the sweaty palm on his trousers. His opponent was good all right. Moller, Staniek, whoever he was, wasn't lying.

A change of tactics was needed. He stepped in for an attack. Spinning around he swung the blade left-handed at Staniek's throat. Staniek leaned back and avoided the blade. DuBois however continued turning and back-fisted him across the face with his right hand. Instinctively he jumped back assuming a guard position.  
"First Blood!" he yelled.  
Sword raised Staniek wiped the back of a hand across his mouth, and looked at it, then back to DuBois.

"When two tigers fight, one hurts, one dies." He spat blood on the floor. "I'm hurting. Guess what happens to you?"  
"I'll have to see about that."  
Staniek could see the confidence that the blow had given DuBois. The sword grip was stronger, the stance more controlled. _Not_ _for_ _long_, he thought.  
He advanced towards DuBois, who stood straight and still, waiting for him. When he was close enough DuBois lunged at Staniek. Staniek swept the blade aside with a flick of his sword arm and punched him in the mouth, hearing bone break on impact. DuBois backed away and touched his damaged jaw, wincing.

_I bet it does,_ thought Staniek. "Now we're even."  
They began circling each other again. Concentration. Staniek's eyes again bored into DuBois. To his credit the Frenchman did not seem adversely affected. Defiant, the fire of rage burning inside him. His fuel, his motivation. _His downfall_.

_::The true warrior sees everything and misses nothing. He is aware of all around him allowing him to take advantage of any weakness or opening in his opponent. If no opening occurs create one. Feint. Distract. The warrior's greatest weapon is surprise::_

Staniek took several steps back, increasing the distance between them "Tell me about Yvette. Did she know how you felt about her? No? Such a shame. A pretty thing wasn't she? I can understand your ardour for her. Her relations with Ward must have left you feeling rather angry? I should imagine that the thought of those two in bed together would make your blood boil."

DuBois flinched. _Gotcha,_ thought Staniek. He continued.

"And what about the other things? How about her going down on him? Swallowing everything he pumped down her throat? Did you wish it was you? You did, didn't you? But it wasn't. Good old Mitchell Ward. The high society man, skirt chaser and lech, the man who had the one thing you wanted, but couldn't have. Who would have thought it? A filthy gutter-mouth whore, who would go with anyone who showed her a touch of kindness capturing a rich man like him, and turning you down. I bet that made you fell less than a man."

He saw DuBois' shoulders sag slightly, and the grip on the sword loosen. It was time to press home the advantage.  
"I take it you saw the scene. Well I'll say one thing for the dead. They can't tell you everything that happened. Shall I fill you in? What would you like to know? How she moaned like a whore and begged me not to stop as I ravished her?"

DuBois tensed.

"Or how about after I had her head? Ward wasn't the only one to enjoy her post mortem. I had never fucked a corpse before, but I must say it was a rather pleasant experience. She was still warm and very pliable. It causes me stirrings just thinking about it."  
"_You murdering bastard!_" DuBois screamed and charged towards Staniek. Staniek sidestepped and drew his sword across DuBois' stomach. DuBois crashed to his knees, sword falling to the asphalt with a clang. Desperately he sucked in air, fighting against the darkness that threatened to overcome him. He heard Staniek move and stand next to him, waiting to feel the cold prick of steel on his neck.  
He could feel the tingling inside him signalling the healing process. He wanted to close his eyes, to die and to heal, but he knew that he couldn't. He had to fight it, or lose his head. There was no other option. His eyes fell upon his sword. _If he could just reach it_... He lowered himself to all fours. If he could distract Staniek he might be able to reach the blade.

"You never told me why you killed her." _Reaching…_  
"Yvette? She was there"  
_Almost there, fingers on the pommel..._ "But she was new. She…"  
"It's the Game, DuBois. You know ...Oh no you don't!"  
Staniek flicked the sword away with his foot. Grabbing a handful of hair he pulled DuBois back to his knees. DuBois inhaled sharply as he felt Staniek's foot drive into his rib cage. Foot, leg and hip went into the kick giving it devastating force. DuBois felt bones crack. Breathing hurt and unconsciousness beckoned. He had lost.

Releasing the grip on his hair, Staniek let DuBois fall back onto all fours.

_Yvette,_ he thought. _My dearest Yvette. I've failed, forgive me._

"Give my regards to Yvette," said Staniek raising his sword, "You're about to be reunited."

When he heard the blade sweeping down through the air, DuBois closed his eyes and embraced the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9: Shock and Awe

**WATCHER REPORT – ANDREZJ STANIEK. REPORT #358**

I will never forget last night's scenes as long as I live. Whilst it is not the first time I have seen an Immortal sword-fight, it has to be the one that sticks in my mind the most. Staniek's prowess with all weapons, and total destruction of DuBois is beyond words. I must admit to being shocked when DuBois appeared to gain the upper hand in this fight when he drew blood first. However there was something strange in Staniek's eyes as this happened. It would not surprise me in the least if Staniek didn't deliberately allow DuBois to strike him. Even he is not above such intrigues.

I can now confirm for the purposes of the Chronicle that Staniek did indeed murder Mitchell Ward and Yvette Bousier. She can be scrubbed from the list of unconfirmed first deaths. Staniek certainly killed her twice that night.

I spoke with DuBois (former?) watcher after the battle. He too was in a state of disbelief. I quote "I've never seen anything like that. It was fucking unbelievable man, un-bee-leevable. I've never known anyone use words to such great effect before. I've been in this job near thirty years, and I have never seen anyone as calculating and as cold as this guy. God help the other Immortals. This guy could be the One." End quote.

There can be no doubt in anybody's mind now about how good Staniek is. Is he invincible? Perhaps not, but if so he's as near as anyone is going to get. Amazing does not even begin to do him justice. Only one word can: BUSHI.

Marc Showler-Watcher Andrezj Staniek


	10. Chapter 10 - Five Moves Ahead

"**Five moves ahead"**

_The Ancient Historians Club  
London, England_

Kronos read the telegram from Staniek for the third time. It thanked him for the warning about DuBois, who had been duly despatched. He had arrived in the United States two days ahead of schedule, and was ready to proceed to the next stage of the operation. He anticipated few obstacles in tracking down the target and would keep him informed of his progress.

The job needed more than a simple street thug who thought that getting information out of someone was achieved by use of blunt instruments and brute force. It needed someone with a reasonable degree of intelligence, a sharp inquiring mind who could find out what he needed to know without arousing too much suspicion.

Kronos knew Staniek by reputation. Although he was always for hire, he still had some scruples. There were things that he would not do, lines that he would not cross. Would he have taken the on the job if he knew who Ivan Krannix really was? More to the point, if he knew what the reasons behind it were?  
Kronos shrugged. It didn't matter. It really didn't matter.

Picking up a piece, he moved it forward, and then set it down.  
"Checkmate," he said, and stopped his clock.  
His playing partner slumped back in his chair.  
"I don't know how you do it Krannix. Four times in a row now, I'd thought I had you beat, and then seemingly from nowhere you win."  
"What can I say? It's all about strategy and thinking several moves ahead. You could say I had some very good teachers, or that I learned from the best. Another round?"  
He too sat back in his squat leather chair. He smiled. It didn't matter if Staniek did find out the truth.  
He was just another pawn.


	11. Chapter 11: Inside Man

"**Inside Man"**

_Elliot-Mead Centre for Epidemiology, Toxicology and Virology_

Staniek stepped out of the taxi. He paid the driver and walked towards two glass-panelled double doors, on the front of the immense whitewashed building in front of him. The chrome fronted doors and windows reflected the sunlight in a thousand different directions at once. A Japanese-inspired fountain trickled gently to one side, creating an oasis of calm in the heart of the big city. Staniek allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the serenity before walking ahead. Nothing less than being direct.

He approached the concrete behemoth in front of him and waited while the doors opened with a faint hum. The inside of the building was as impressive as the outside. Polished marble floors and pillars filled the vast atrium. In the centre like an island sat an oval reception desk complete with security guard. The walls were adorned with medically inspired art work. He stopped in front of a work he recognised, a print of Van Dyck's Saint Rosalie Interceding for the Plague-Stricken of Palermo. _How far we have come _he thought to himself. As if to reinforce this, the next image was a print of the DNA double-helix. _Faith gives way to science. Such is the way of things._

Pulling himself away from the walls he walked towards the reception island, where a young, uniformed security guard sat looking bored. He looked up as Staniek approached.

"Can I help you?"

Staniek set down his case and loosened his scarf.

"Good morning. I am looking for a Dr Marco Cudicini please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No I don't. Do I need one?"

"Yes sir you do. This is a teaching centre as well as a research facility. All are staff are engaged in one way or another. You will have to arrange an appointment with Dr Cudicini himself, or we can request one for you. I'll need you to give me some details first. You know, procedures that need following."  
"Of course."

"Do you have any contact details Mister?" He waited for Staniek to fill in the blanks.

"Molot. Dr Vanechka Molot."

"Hmm. Could you spell that for me please?"

"V-A-N-E-C-H-K-A, M-O-L-O-T."

"Great."said the guard in the casual, offhand American fashion that Staniek found amusing. "Well Dr Molot, thank you for your details and someone will be in touch. I'm sorry I can't be of any more help."

Staniek bent to pick up his case, waiting for the obligatory "Have a nice day,"

When it came he spoke to the guard again.

"Excuse me, but is there any chance you could call Dr Cudicini? I've travelled trans-Atlantic to see him, and I don't have his personal number."

"That's most irregular Doctor, we really do have to stick to the rules. Dr Cudicini himself helped write them. I don't think he'd be too happy if we broke them."

Staniek smiled ruefully to put the guard at ease. _Was this the stereotypical minimum-wage rent-a-cop found in novels and films, or was he the real thing, a professional? _

"Please, humour me." He flashed a warm smile at the receptionist who returned it before looking down at her keyboard. "If there is no answer or he tells you I have to book an appointment, I will, but please try. I don't want to waste any more of your time."

The guard looked at Staniek and then the receptionist. "Okay, but if he says no, you gotta go."

"Dobré."

The receptionist picked up the phone and dialled a number. After several rings she cradled the handset between her shoulder and head and looked at Staniek, "I'm afraid there's no... Oh hello Dr Cudicini, it's Janie at the front desk. I'm good, listen. I have a Dr Vanechka Molot here to see you, yes Vanechka, he..." she held the phone away from her ear momentarily "Thank you Dr Cudicini." She hung up and looked at Staniek.

"Ow! That hurt, that was so loud. Dr Molot, Dr Cudicini is on his way. He sounded very excited and said to book you straight in. Do you have any identification?"

Staniek produced a Lithuanian passport from his suit jacket and passed it over. The guard raised his eyebrows and gave Staniek the hard-eye.

"Oh" Janie said. "I didn't expect one of these."

Staniek cocked his head to one side, "It's legitimate."

The guard picked it up and examined it. "Sure looks like it to me. You'll forgive us both, but we don't get that many Lithuanian visitors."

"Not many at all and none of so regal a bearing as a matter of fact." A tenor voice reverberated in the atrium. "Of course translated, the name means the Kingly Hammer. A most appropriate name for one who seeks to destroy nasty little things such as viruses. A parental joke as well I recall, a pun on the old King's Evil. It has been a long time since I last heard the name. It's good to see you again Vanya."

Staniek turned, instantly recognising the voice, and the face."Marco Cudicini!"

The two men embraced.

Cudicini looked at the guard and receptionist and pointed to himself and Staniek "We studied together at Padua, Italy many, many years ago when his parents sent him there to the old seat of medical learning. He was extremely fortunate to be allowed to cross the lines those days. The stories I could tell you. When you said he was here, I could not believe my ears."

"I can't believe mine either. They're still ringing Dr Cudicini."Janie chimed in.

"I'm so sorry my dear, really I am. But, oh, how good to see you. No shadows this time?"

Staniek nodded. "No shadows, no followers, no inspections of the room. That's all gone."

Like any natural storyteller, Cudicini could not resist a captive audience. "Ha, we never did get into any trouble though did we? With the shadows around we always knew we'd be kept safe. Nobody dared mess with us, or them. Oh the things we got away with in those days. Wine, women song.."

"Studying."

"..Good food, studying yes, more wine, more women, more song. Not forgetting the obligatory meetings of the student Communist body, and the fun that entailed. Ha ha, oh to be that young again."

Aware of the looks he was receiving from the staff at the desks he added, "Vanya here had to do it. It was something of a rarity to be allowed to cross the Curtain in those days. We used to joke that he was allowed to join us because the big cheeses wanted to know what we were doing so they could improve their biological warfare programme!"

He allowed himself a chuckle, and was pleased that the two younger staff appreciated the joke.

"We thought they'd decided it was easier to send someone to study, than worry about spying! Naturally like any good Soviet citizen he was expected to show loyalty to the Revolution and encourage others. Back in those days, Italy was a hotbed of Communist sympathy after the Fascist era. Of course being extra curricular it provided many an opportunity for mischief I can tell you!"

Staniek smiled at the memory. He had chosen the name for two reasons, the first was as Cudicini had surmised, but the other was deliberately aimed at his controllers within the Kremlin. They had objected to the name on the grounds that it was unpatriotic, anti-revolutionary and imperialist, but in the end they had relented when he proposed the cover story and reasons for seeking to study. Again Cudicini had not been far from the truth, although the capabilities being enhanced were purely his own.

Intuitively aware of the changed mood Staniek put in a joke of his own. "So does this count as an official appointment?"

Cudicini's warm laughter was infectious, and neither Janie nor Evers could resist.

"I think so Vanya, I think so. Let's get you a pass printed. Janie, I'll be back for it. We're off to catch up."

Janie returned to her monitors, as Cudicini indicated to an adjacent office. Opening the door he allowed Staniek to step through first and then closed the door behind him.

"Good God man, you're in excellent shape. Let me look at you."

He turned Staniek's face to the side looking for cosmetic surgery scars. He found none.

"You've kept your youthful good looks after all this time. It must be nearly twenty-five years."

"Twenty-eight."

"Twenty-eight then. Have you discovered a cure for ageing that you haven't told me about?"

"Maybe. Those Soviet scientists were quite clever in their day."

"I shouldn't have expected anything more than that from you. So what's your current speciality?"

Staniek grinned. "Elimination."

Cudicini laughed. "Elimination? Ho- ho that's good. Who for, Pfizer? Bayer?"

"I work freelance contracts. If you can afford my services then I'll do the job. What about you?"

"Me? Oh I'm part of a senior panel of three doctors, and one of the two trustees of the centre. The other doctors are Toxicologist Douglas Stuart, and our finest Virologist Mikael Petrov. He too works freelance occasionally, alongside his teaching and research duties."

Staniek nodded. He already knew about the research conducted at the centre, Petrov's especially. Krannix had seen to that.

"Of course, I have heard of Dr Petrov. Enough shop for now Marco. I see Marianna is looking after you. A fine cook as always?" Staniek laughed gesturing at Cudicini's midriff.

Patting his stomach Cudicini laughed. "Of course. Never ceases to work culinary wonders that woman. Like her mother, and her mother before that. The old Italian heritage. Silvia inherited her mothers talent for cookery."

"And Mateo?"

"Mateo followed in my footsteps."

"He's a scientist too?"

"No he married a woman who can cook better than he!"

Tears of laughter rolled down both of their faces. "It's good to see you again Vanya. Now, what brings you to Chicago?"

"Looking up old friends Marco. Now that the Curtain is down and travelling is less restricted than it was a few years ago especially. The joys of the free market economy and the like; freedom is finally extending to all."

"You mean that although the Iron Curtain was gone the iron chains remained?"

"Da. My neighbours asked me what had changed when they saw the Berlin Wall come down. It took a long time to adjust, old friend, a long time. Still now I'm here, I intend to enjoy the new freedom I now have. Starting of course with spending some time here."

"Good. May I ask how long you intend to stay?" Cudicini asked.

"I'm not sure. A few weeks, a month perhaps. Certainly no longer than six weeks. It's a big world out there and I want to see as much of it as I can. Particularly the old enemy countries. See whether the old films were accurate or not."

Cudicini smiled at the last remark. "Well since you are here, forgive me for putting you on the spot like this, but do you still teach?"

Staniek paused and thought of DuBois. DuBois had certainly been taught a lesson, never cross the world's greatest assassin, and never, ever let anger or rage cloud your judgement.

He smiled again. "Not often."

"Then would you care to give a few guest lectures here? I'm sure that our students, staff and research fellows alike would be honoured to attend such a lecture, given by an esteemed a scientist as yourself."

Staniek thought for a few moments. Such an endeavour could leave him dangerously exposed. On the other hand, it could make Petrov's elimination easier. Win his trust, as he had DuBois'. Sometimes being conspicuous was the best camouflage available.  
He shrugged. All operations carried a certain amount of risk. Why should this be any different?

"I would be honoured."


	12. Chapter 12: Switchback

"**Switchback"**

Staniek leaned back in his seat on the coach and observed his fellow passengers. Fans decked out in various Chicago Bears regalia and merchandise. Many singing and shouting about their forthcoming victory over the Packers in Green Bay.  
Thankfully he had managed to get a seat to himself. Singing in front and behind he could put up with, but next to him, right in his ear would have been too much. Still, he mused, why not let them enjoy themselves? They had only one life each.

He looked out the window and watched the scenery pass by. Endless greenery on each side. It reminded him of the old country. Back when he had been a volunteer soldier, before he discovered his abilities as an assassin, and before he discovered his Immortality. He turned away from the window and listened again to the hoarse voices singing.

Victory over the opponent. He could identify with that. Closing his eyes he reflected on the events of the previous days.

* * *

_Elliot - Mead Centre for Epidemiology, Toxicology and Virology, Chicago._

"A long weekend Vanya, a long weekend."

Marco Cudicini clasped his hands behind his head as he leaned back in the chair. "God knows I need it. It's really taken it out of me these past few weeks. Time to relax and recharge the batteries. Things been going all right with your teaching?"

Staniek nodded. "Yes. Better than expected. They've really warmed to me. You've a fine crop here Marco, a real fine crop. The young lad Winston, I forget his first name, is a find. He has the potential to become the finest in the field. He could be after your job."

Cudicini chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere. You're too modest though. You're a better scientist than I. I agree, he is good and he has what it takes to make it. I've seen him in your lectures. He devours your every word like it was Manna from heaven. He's in complete awe of you. You're something of a hero to him, a legend in your own lifetime as it were."

Staniek cocked a finger and pointed it at him. "You'd better believe it Marco."

The door opened and Mikael Petrov entered. "Marco, Vanya." He sat down. "Well the weekend is practically here. Have any plans Marco?"

"Taking the wife to see the Grandchildren in Minneapolis. It'll be good to see my son again. A few beers on the porch, then a great meal cooked by his wife. She does a mean steak that one. Saving it 'specially for me he said. You?"

"Probably head to my cabin on the far side of the lake. Do a little fishing, some reading, and some writing on my book."

"Your book?" said Staniek, his interest suddenly piqued.

"Yes. 'A process of elimination,' a new work on dealing with epidemics. A lucrative contract, big up front bonus, plus the usual perks. Signings, massive publicity and so on."

"Nice if you can get it."

"Of course. Listen, why don't you come up this weekend? I could definitely use some input from someone as esteemed as yourself. Nice fat contributor's cheque too? Tempted?"

"I'd love to, but I'm off to Green Bay for a few days, watching the football, and visiting an old friend up that way."

"Well ok. But if you reconsider, there's a ferry crossing between here and Green Bay. My cabin is five miles above the landing point on the far side of the lake. Head north for three miles until you see a side road into the woods. It's unmistakable, because unlike the others, it's tarmacked. Follow it 'til you reach a junction box. I'm directly off the box. Mine is the only cabin for a mile and a half or so, so you can't miss it. Anyway, I had best be going. See you all Tuesday."

"I'll be off too. See you later Vanya." Cudicini rose and followed Petrov out the door. Staniek raised a hand in farewell, then sat back.

_That_ hadn't been in the file Krannix had given him.

An isolated cabin in the woods. _Perfect_.

* * *

_Lake Michigan_

Leaning on the rail he enjoyed the sensation of the spray whipping against his face. Invigorating. Stimulating. He turned and glanced towards the front of the boat.

The densely wooded Michigan shore loomed large ahead. Staniek marvelled at the sight. The vast expanse of greenery, contrasting sharply with the deep blueness of the lake. It reminded him of the old country. The similarity between here and the Niemen foreshore was startling. Not that he missed it. His professionalism allowed no time for sentimentality or nostalgia.  
Gripping the rail with both hands he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before slowly exhaling. Concentrating. Focussing. Meditating. He repeated the process.

A tugging on his sleeve disturbed him. He looked down and saw a small boy staring back at him.

"Excuse me Mister. You're not going to puke are you?"

Staniek smiled. "No I was just relaxing myself."

"Oh. My mommy does that when she's going to puke."

Staniek could not suppress a grin at the kid's lack of guile.

"What's your name?"

He paused for a moment. "Molot. Dr Molot."

"A doctor? A real doctor? Do you make people better when they get sick?"

"No I'm not that kind of doctor. I study why people get sick so they can get better."

"Oh. I'm Danny and I'm six. When I grow up I'm going to be a fireman."

"Danny! Danny, what have I told you about talking to strangers?"

"He's not a stranger Mommy. He's my friend. His name is Dr Molot, but he doesn't help people when they get sick. He finds out what makes them sick."

"That's great. Sorry he disturbed you Dr Molot."

Staniek looked at her. She had flowing red hair, and deep blue eyes. He found her very attractive. Her eyes told him it was mutual. "Not a problem I assure you. Ah, the impetuosity of youth, so pleasant. Weren't we all young once?"

"A long time ago."

_Longer than you know,_ he said to himself. He crouched in front of the boy. "If you want to be a fireman, most importantly, don't give up on your dreams. Work hard in school, do your chores, and eat your greens when Mommy tells you to."

"Must I do the last part?"

"Especially the last part."

Danny grinned and nodded. "Ok I will."

Staniek stood up and ruffled his hair. "Good boy." He turned to his mother. "He's a great kid. Take care of him."

"Thankyou I will. Danny say goodbye, we'll be getting off soon."

"Goodbye Dr Molot." He waved.

Staniek waved back. "Bye Danny."

"Thankyou again Dr Molot, and goodbye."

Staniek smiled. "You're welcome. And goodbye…?"

"Sara." She offered him her hand.

"Sara." Lifting her hand he lightly brushed it with his lips. "Enchanté."

She reddened. "Farewell Doctor. Come on Danny."

Ludington harbour, the boat's destination was clearly visible ahead, the end of the journey, and the point of no return. Reaching into an inside pocket, Staniek removed his spectacles and put them on. He looked once more at the lake, then at the shore. Time to get to work. Picking up the shoulder bag he turned and went below decks.


	13. Chapter 13: Darkness Falls

"**Darkness falls"**

_Foreshore Forest Park, Michigan_

Staniek jammed the screwdriver into the junction box door and forced it open. He double-checked to make sure that no one was around. In the near stillness of the forest his only company was a woodpecker busy hammering away at a tree trunk. Reaching inside the box he searched for the mains cable. He found it towards the back of the box, a thick black insulated cable. Break, or cut that, and power would go out in the entire locality. Not that many people would notice, apart from Petrov. Without electricity, Petrov would be left in near-darkness. _And_ _afraid_. It would take at least an hour after the services had been contacted, for anybody to come and repair it. Given that it was a public holiday, it would be more like two. Either way, it gave him plenty of time to escape.

On his knees, he reached for a blue carrier bag, and pulled out something wrapped in greaseproof paper. Carefully he removed the substance, C4 plastic explosive. Rolling it between his hands he formed it into an inch-long sausage shape, before wrapping it around the mains cable. He returned the paper to the bag, and removed a digital wristwatch, a length of wire, and a pair of wire cutters. Clipping the wire into two pieces he inserted one end of each into the plastic explosive. Checking his watch he set the alarm on the digital for thirty-one minutes later. _Plenty of time to reach Petrov's cabin_.

Alarm set he attached the free ends of the wire to the watch. Bomb and fuse ready to go. So simple, and so devastatingly effective. He shut the door and grabbed the plastic bag. Calmly he walked back into the woods. His shoulder bag still hung on the tree where he had left it. A quick check told him everything was still there. He had not been disturbed. He headed north towards Petrov's cabin.

* * *

Petrov trotted happily around the cabin, whistling softly along to The Grand March, from Aida, his favourite opera. Reaching over to the disc player he increased the volume. It was simply stirring stuff. He crossed the room again, over to the desk and sipped at his drink. Austrian schnapps and opera he thought, a wonderful way to relax the mind after a hard-mornings research.

The spacious three room cabin gave him the peace he needed, and reminded him of home. After the stark sterility of the research centre it was a welcome relief. The early spring sunshine did not fully penetrate the forest around his cabin, but the lights and lamps inside the main room more than compensated for the lack of natural light.

Settling back into his chair, he put on his glasses to look through the notes. Stretching his legs out under the desk he leaned back in the chair looking at the ornamental chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Beautiful as it was, it did not cast enough light for him to read by. He adjusted the banker's lamp on his desk to allow himself to read more clearly. _There_, the bright 100-watt bulb made every word stand out clearly on the page.

A knock on the door startled him. He was certainly not expecting any visitors. Fear quickly gave way to annoyance. _Who would dare to disturb him at such a critical stage in his work?_ Slowly he rose, heading for the door on the far side of the cabin. Heart pounding he cracked the door carefully, a cautionary response to the unexpected visitor. He was rewarded with a familiar face.

"Molot! You came! Come in, come in. To what do I owe the honour?" Petrov opened the door widely after checking to make sure his visitor was alone.

Staniek cleared his throat. "My friend fell ill and could not go to the game. He said I was welcome to go and pick up the tickets, but I decided that there was no point. I jumped onto the Manitowoc ferry as you suggested."

Staniek turned to view the greenery around the cabin. No security devices, and certainly nobody following. _Smoothly does it_, he thought. Turning back to his host he said "A peaceful place here. It reminds me a lot of home. I grew up in Medumi, and then Vilnius before my father was transferred to 'Grad."

"Medumi? Ah Medumi! That's Latvia now if I recall correctly?"

"It is. I hear you too are from the same part of the world?"

"You hear correctly my friend. I am of Pskov, near what is now Estonia, hence the name Petrov. My ancestors were Estonians, which is how I prefer to style myself."

"A wonderful part of the world, and yet here we both are in the bosom of the old enemy. The world changes immeasurably."

"Very true Vanya. Please come in and make yourself comfortable." Petrov turned and wandered back into the cabin.

Staniek stepped inside slowly, watching the scientist carefully. "Do you mind if I take a look at your work so far?" asked Staniek.

"Of course. It's over on the desk. Shut the door behind you."

Staniek closed and locked the door. He scanned the room, keenly picking out the detail. A large 1930's desk, and a sideboard of similar age to the right of the room. A stone fireplace dominated the far wall, faced by a large leather settee and rugs. Two doorways, presumably bedroom and bathroom in the opposite corner by the kitchenette. No second access or egress route. One door, one window, and lots of lights.

"You have a, ahem, a vast array of electrical fittings here Mikael."

Petrov nodded. "It's the light you see. Much as I appreciate being out here, I don't get anywhere near enough light, hence the fittings. A pity the window is not south facing so it is in sunlight for most of the day.

"Forgive me, but why purchase it then?"

"I negotiated a good price for it because of the direction it faces, and the works I needed to do. The window is large enough to let some light in and see anybody coming, and the same goes for the one in the bedroom. I like the isolation and the peace. It's like being back in the old country but without the baggage of the old days. And of course, I'm still connected to the grid, a reliable one at that!"

Staniek laughed at Petrov's joke. Adopting an accent he said "The power has been cut by the Western Imperialists. We will not let them win!"

It was Petrov's turn to laugh. "How did we ever get through those days? Incompetent state-run services that simply could not cope. It's so much better now I'm told."

"I believe so. But Mikael, what happens if you're cut off here?"

"I have candles. Not as powerful as electrical light, I admit, but it's something." He laughed nervously. "It keeps the darkness at bay as it were. I have them close to hand around the place along with matches."

Staniek nodded. To maximise his advantage over Petrov he would have to move quickly when the time came. He looked at the desk, noting the box of matches near the banker's lamp, and placed the shoulder bag on top of them.

"These the notes?"

"Yes feel free to peruse them." Petrov walked over to a drinks cabinet on the far side of the room. "Now what can I get you? Bourbon? Schnapps? Vodka?"

"A glass of Bourbon will do nicely. Large one if you can."

"Certainly. You can turn the music off if you like, I find it helps me to concentrate. Other people find it distracting."

"I must admit I fall into the latter. I prefer a softer piece for focussing the mind, particularly those meditation discs you can pick up cheaply."

Staniek switched the player off, and looked at his wristwatch. Less than thirty-seconds to go. Petrov was still preparing the drinks, his attention elsewhere. The tension in his body language earlier had gone. The edginess evaporated, his guard down, and vulnerable. Nonetheless he would Staniek would have to strike quickly. He reached into the bag, searching for his gloves. Silently he donned them behind his back.

"Ice?" called Petrov.

"Please." Staniek flexed his fingers before pulling them back into fists. He reached for the bag again before closing his eyes, readying himself for darkness.

The lights flicked out. Staniek pulled the silenced Beretta from the bag. He could hear Petrov's breathing become ragged as panic set in. "Must be a power cut." He said, walking towards Petrov, the gun in his right hand.

"Oh my God, oh my God, I need light. I hate the dark. Matches, matches! I need light! Where are the damned matches? God help me please!" Petrov screamed.

"In God we trust. All others pay cash."

Petrov froze. "Who...who said that?" he croaked weakly.

Staniek snaked his left arm around Petrov's throat, and jammed the Beretta to his temple.

"You did." He whispered softly. "On your suicide note."


End file.
